


Reflections

by maokitty



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Non-Explicit Sex, haha writing this hurt, post-Deathly Hallows grief fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-02 12:16:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17264045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maokitty/pseuds/maokitty
Summary: George knows that it isn’t about you, not really. It’s more about Fred. Still, it feels like a betrayal.





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> Post-Deathly Hallows fic about coping with the loss of Fred. I know there are like ten million of these and I actually wrote one myself in 2007 (still up on Lunaescence!), but in 2007 I had not yet experienced love or grief, so I’m taking another crack at it now. I think I did George more justice this time around. Hopefully people like it! Let me know if you want to see a Part II (really, this Part I works as a standalone).
> 
> Note that this deals with grief, survivor's guilt, and some wildly unhealthy coping mechanisms.

Mornings are the hardest.

You relive the Battle of Hogwarts every single night. The scenes play out in quick succession beneath you, like you are a spirit floating above it all, a ghost that cannot leave. From the top-down, you see: Fred and George leaning over the balcony, staring out into the night; the Death Eaters approaching the school grounds, a mass of dark hoods and jeering faces; Fred’s lips pressed against yours, feather-light in the midst of war; him laughing as you say that he isn’t allowed to die, because “if you die, I’ll kill you”. You see Fred smiling at you in that bold, mischievous way of his. 

“I won’t,” he replies. “I have to marry you after this, remember?”

The cruel film continues, hurtling relentlessly toward the final scene: Fred’s laughter; his elation at hearing his estranged brother making a joke; the blast that kills him, sending his body to the floor; his frozen smile and unseeing eyes; the crying from his mother, from you, from his twin. You see yourself begging him to say something— _anything._ Please, Fred, _please. Anything. Anything… This smile cannot be his last._

Mornings are the hardest, because for a moment, it all feels like a bad dream.

It is especially hard today, because you are woken up by Fred’s voice.

“Why the long face, George?” you hear Fred saying. Groggily, you rise from your bed, wondering why Fred had crawled out of bed without waking you up. When you walk out into the hallway, you realize that the two brothers are in the washroom. After a pause, you hear Fred joke, “Wow, do I also look this terrible when I’m sad?”

More silence. You envision George rolling his eyes. You’ve been friends with the two of them for seven years, and you’ve heard this banter before, and you’re ready to hear George say, _“Nah, mate, you look worse. I’m the better looking twin, remember?”_

But he doesn’t say that today. Instead, George gives a shaky little laugh—the same one that had left him during the funeral, the one that always dissolves into agonized, silent tears. It is this laugh that forces it all to come rushing back to you—

Fred is _gone._

“Cut me some slack, you git,” George finally says. “I’m in mourning.”

The washroom door is ajar. You glance through the opening and see that George is alone. He is leaning against the washroom sink, looking into the face of his reflection. He is smiling, but his cheeks are wet.

 

* * *

 

During your fourth year, the twins decided to play a joke on you that left you mortified for weeks afterward. To this day, you still don’t really understand why they thought it’d be a good idea. It was all Fred’s idea, George had confessed afterward. You had believed him, of course, because Fred was always the instigator.

It had happened during a lovely spring morning. You remember having taken off your robes because the sun was making you so hot. Fred had told you to meet him at the lake, near enough to the Whomping Willow to enjoy the romance of its budding leaves, but far away enough so that it would not harass you. You saw him immediately and, without thinking, ran over and greeted him with a kiss on the cheek. It was chaste, but enthusiastic. This was absolutely normal behaviour—you were young and excited to see your first ever boyfriend.

Curiously, Fred made a face and jerked back, clearly disconcerted. From behind the nearby tree, you heard the other twin yell, “ _Oi!_ You weren’t supposed to do that! You weren’t supposed to kiss me right off the bat!” He ran out from his hiding spot, dodging a half-hearted swing from the Whomping Willow.

Something clicked, and your jaw dropped. Staring at the boy in front of you, you yelled, “ _George!?”_

He only smiled, apologetic.

“I’m _so_ sorry!” you cried. “It’s just… you look just like him!” Of course, this went without saying, but you were unable to give a better explanation in your mortified state.  

“He wanted to see if you’d be able to tell the difference,” George informed, seeming to recover from his embarrassment. “You know, in case one of us ever becomes evil and you have to figure out which one to kill.”

“And you couldn’t tell the difference!” Fred cried. He immediately grabbed George by the shoulder, rubbing vigorously at the spot where you’d kissed him. George protested immediately, trying to wiggle out of his brother’s grasp.

“Ow— _geroff!”_

Fred continued, ignoring his brother’s suffering as he continued to scrub your kiss off his cheek. “You need to be more careful than that!” he scolded you, but you could tell that he was trying to hide a smile. “George is the evil twin, you know. You need to be able to tell us apart.”

“Don’t listen to him—I’m the good twin! He’s the one you’ll need to _stupefy_!”

You rolled your eyes. 

“Oh, come off it. If we had just _talked_ for a little bit, I would have been able to tell the difference.”

“Oh?” Both of the twins turned to you, eyebrows raised. Intensely curious, one of them remarked, “not even Mum can tell us apart, usually.”

“It’s easy!” You were looking at Fred now. “George can actually be sensible sometimes. _You’re_ a lost cause.”

Your boyfriend gave a roaring laugh, a brilliant smile on his face.

“Right. But I’m _your_ lost cause.”

 

* * *

 

George stiffens when he notices you in the reflection. It takes him a moment to figure out what to do. This had, after all, been an intensely private and absurdly _stupid_ moment. He isn’t off his rocker, not yet—he knows that he needs to quit this strange habit of talking to his reflection. He’s no longer identical to Fred now that his ear is gone, anyway, so it isn’t even that convincing! But no matter how silly it is, it helps him, lets him pretend for a few, precious seconds each morning that Fred is still alive, still _with him_.

And these moments with Fred—they are private. They are not meant for you, nor anyone else. Catching you spying on him feels like a betrayal.

But when he sees your eyes glistening, he forgets his own grief.

“I’m all right.” He straightens up. “I—err—I’m not as mental as I look right now, I promise. This is just… something that I do,” he finishes lamely.

When you join him in the washroom and wrap your arms around him, he yields. Leaning into your touch, George watches the two of you in the mirror, your bodies pressed together in grief.

“I’m worried about you,” you whisper. You aren’t crying, but your reflection looks almost there. George’s chest has ached so much over the past few weeks that it shocks him when he feels the pain worsen. He hadn’t thought it possible.

“You don’t have to,” he promises you.

For a moment, the two of you just stand there. George wraps his arms around you, holds you close—comforts you the way that Fred would have wanted. Your head is buried into his chest, so you don’t notice what he sees in the mirror: his brother with his sweetheart, holding her close. It is like Fred is still here, still with you, and the two of you can still live out your long lives together… it is like George is the one who died—

— _should_ have died, he can’t help but think.

 

* * *

 

 “ _Amortentia_ ,” you said, thrusting the potion out at the twins. “Strongest love potion in the textbook. D’you think I managed all right? I’m two years behind you, so I haven’t done this in class yet.”

George shrugged as he took the flask from you, seeming unbothered. “It’ll be better anything the two of us will ever come up with. We both got T’s on our Potions OWLs.”

“Yeah, remember when _I_ tried to make amortentia?” Fred grinned. George chortled.

“Lee threw up for about half the day!”

“Oh…” Your eyebrows shot up, and you stared uncertainly at the liquid in George’s hands. It looked right, with its clear consistency and mother-of-pearl sheen, and it _smelled_ right, too, like something between newly baked sweets, old broomsticks, and fresh grass. In other words, it smelled like _Fred_.

Still, you had never done this before, and you definitely didn’t want to poison anyone.

“Well, then, careful with that. Do you want to test it before using it on someone?”

“Only one way to test it, love!” Fred snatched the flask from George’s hands, swirling it around and inhaling deeply, as though he were sampling a vintage wine. “Smells like you! Good start. Bottoms up!”

“You know, mate,” George interjected before his brother could start drinking, “given the fact that your girlfriend brewed the love potion, I don’t think you’ll feel anything if it _is_ working. Doesn’t sound like a useful test.”

Fred frowned, though you could tell that he wasn’t truly upset.

“Well, I’m not letting _you_ have it,” he exclaimed at George. To emphasize his point, he threw an arm around you, pulling you in close. You squealed at the sudden motion, but he didn’t relent. “You’re not allowed to fall in love with my girlfriend!”

George didn’t seem too bothered at the mild accusation. “Not what I was suggesting, actually.”

“I don’t want _Lee_ to fall in love with my girlfriend either!”

 George snapped his fingers. “Darn.”

You giggled. “It’s fine, guys. Love potions don’t make people develop proper feelings—they just drive infatuation. You’ll basically follow me around like a puppy and act absolutely obsessed over me if this works.”

“Oh, but I’m _already_ absolutely obsessed with you—”

“He really is,” George interjected. “Won’t shut up about you. Cuts into my sleep, you know.”

“You won’t notice a difference!”

You raised a brow. “But doesn’t that mean that George is—”

George was right, you wanted to say. It would be a meaningless test if Fred wouldn’t act any differently should the potion work. But he only grinned and said, “Cheers!” before downing the whole thing. Your face fell into your hands. You might have just poisoned your boyfriend, all because he needed some love potions for his up-and-coming joke shop.

“ _Muffliato_ charms before bed it is, then,” George said dryly.

As it turned out, Fred _was_ head over heels for you already. His behaviour hardly changed, except he became unbearably public about his affection over the next twenty-four hours. Rather than snogging you in deserted corridors and waiting until the common room emptied out before locking you in his arms and spinning you about, he did those things in front of _everyone._ But the actions were all the same, and George found that he lost no more sleep than usual that night.

 

* * *

 

 

You’ve convinced yourself that this is the best way to cope. George has withdrawn from the rest of his family, unable to stand The Burrow with the absence of his brother. You know just a little bit about what it’s like for him: it is strange visiting a place that you consider home without seeing the person who’d _made_ it home. It is the place where the emptiness of a world without Fred feels the greatest, and George cannot stand that cold void. It is probably also worse, you think, because Mrs Weasley keeps slipping and calling him Fred. You do not blame her, because even when they were alive, she sometimes mixed them up.

Still, neither of you can stand it.

So you’ve kept to the flat above the joke shop, which is where you’d been living anyway. Multiple times, you’ve thought about moving out, but George always insists that you should stay. “Fred will,” he repeatedly says, “come back as a poltergeist and drop dungbombs into my bed daily if I leave you alone. Also, I’ll go absolutely mad if have no one to talk to here.”

“Right.” At this, you always smile encouragingly. “I’d go mad without you too, you know.”

But a part of you thinks that you _are_ going mad staying with him. This flat is the first home that you’ve ever shared with him. You can feel Fred’s absence here more than anywhere else, no matter how hard George is clearly trying to fill it. You can taste it in your tea in the morning, because George hasn’t quite figured out the amount of sugar and milk to add, but Fred had always been spot on about it. You can hear it George’s voice, sometimes uncertain in his jokes because he no longer has Fred to play off. You can feel it in the empty space next to you in bed, in the absence of arms around you, the unsettling feeling that you are forever waiting for a punch line that will never come.

Sometimes, though, George is incredibly _good_ at filling the absence. Sometimes he keeps you company in the washroom in the morning, the two of you just brushing your teeth together and bantering with mouths full of toothpaste. Sometimes, when your eyes are heavy with tears, he holds you tight and it feels the way that Fred did it: with his arms tight around you, with the smell of broomsticks and the fresh outdoors, and it hurts so bad. Sometimes he looks at you over breakfast, and you are floored by the warmth in his brown eyes, the way that his face is carved exactly like Fred’s.

You should have seen it coming. You should have known that at some point, the loneliness of your bed would become too great. You should have known that at some point, squeezing your eyes shut and trying to imagine his sleeping body beside yours would no longer be enough. You should have known that you’d eventually knock on George’s door, needing him to fill up the emptiness at night. Your body is abused with sobs by the time he opens the door, each one wracking the inside of your chest with pain.

“I c-can’t stand it anymore,” you say, and you hate how your voice sounds: pathetic and blubbering and so _childish_. “I just—I _can’t._ He used to sleep beside me, a-and it feels so _cold_ now, and—please, make it _stop._ ”

George is nothing but sympathetic when he holds you and invites you into his room. At your insistence and scattered pleas, he allows you to sleep next to him in bed. He does not hold you, of course, because just his presence is all you need. When you wake up in the middle of the night and glance over to the man who looks just like your deceased lover—well, it is enough. It helps you pretend that Fred is alive, if just for a few, precious seconds each night.

Given all of this, you should have seen it coming that simply living together would not be enough for either of you.

 

* * *

 

 

Long after the love potion wore off, Fred had remained absurdly affectionate. It was a bit embarrassing, and made you go red in the hallways every time he insisted on kissing you up and down your neck, but in his words—“I got a taste of what it’s like to do this all the time! And I rather like it. I’m not going to quit!” And George, ever the enabler, only laughed at the two of you and egged him on, so Fred never ended up stopping.

He’d also become more upfront about his feelings. That had been odd, at first. The Weasley twins always seemed too busy cracking jokes and pulling pranks to really talk about _feelings_. It had only come up a couple of times ever before, but now, Fred seemed to be full of these moments. “Well, you know how mad I am over you now,” Fred had explained. “No point hiding it!”

And so, completely transparent about his intentions, Fred one day brought up the future.

“George and I are going to drop out of school,” he said. You might have been worried about other Gryffindor students overhearing his plans, but he held you so closely that most of them tried pointedly to avoid looking at you. Somehow, you found it hard to look at him, too. You still enjoyed the heat of his body pressed up against you, of the scent of him, just as potent as _amortentia_. But actually looking at him, meeting his eyes? It was easy to stare at the crackling fire in front of you instead. For a few moments, you let the sound of splitting wood fill the silence.

“Yes,” you finally replied after a few moments, voice hushed. “I know.”

“I still wish you would come.”

“…I know.”

“But you won’t, will you?”

“I want to finish up school, Fred. You know that.”

“Yeah.” You felt him deflate a bit. “It’s not that I don’t want you to. It’s just… you know, with that old hag in charge, and with you alone…”

“I won’t be alone. I’ll have Hermione and Ron and Neville and Seamus, and I guess Harry whenever he isn’t too stressed over the whole You-Know-Who thing.”

“Yeah, but… _I_ won’t be there for you.”

“You will be, still, even if not in person,” you assured him. “And I’ll take every chance to visit you.”

Something you said made him straighten up. He leaned forward, pecking you on the cheek.

“So we’ll try the long distance thing?” he asked, sounding much brighter.

You bit your lip, trying not to smile too much.

“We’ll _nail_ the long distance thing, Fred.”

 

* * *

 

He is trying his best. George thinks quite honestly that the two of you need each other, that the both of you would go mad without the other. But the situation has quickly presented a dilemma, an awful Catch-22: though the two of you would go mad without the other, you seem to be losing your minds living together as well.

He thinks that it’s more his fault than yours. George keeps dreaming about his twin, of his other half, dying. He keeps agonizing at night, wishing that he had been quicker to react and pushed Fred out of the way and taken the hit instead. In these fantasies, Fred is alive and you are happy and mum is well and he would not have to look at his reflection in the morning and think of his dead brother. Of course, all of you would have to mourn, but he just _knows_ that it would have been easier if it had been him and not Fred… because Fred had always been slightly better at starting jokes and lightening up the atmosphere, and Fred had always loved you so much, and you would not feel the absence of George in the way that you feel the absence of Fred, like a long, happy life has been robbed from you. 

Fred had simply been more… deserving.

George turns to look at you.You are sleeping in his bed, as is usual now, and he can’t help but find you beautiful in moments like these. Though your expression is finally peaceful, he can see tear tracks at your cheekbones. He likes to think, as he falls into slumber, that he has been easing this pain for you. He has always loved you as a friend, always cherished the relationship between you and Fred, and had looked forward to having you become his sister-in-law. If only Fred were alive—you would be less sad, and less empty…

Sleepily, he continues to stare at you. The tear stains run all the way down to your parted lips.

It isn’t about him wanting you, although George isn’t stupid enough to deny that you are a very want-able person. He’s always been able to see why Fred had fallen in love with you.

He’d just always stopped himself from thinking about it too long in the past.

 _In the past._  

But it isn’t about you, not really. It’s more about Fred.

Still, it feels like a betrayal.

 

* * *

 

When Bill and Fleur got married, it had felt like a dream: a reprieve from a looming war, one where you were able to step into a fantasy. Part of the dream, of course, was that you and Fred were not constantly thinking about what it would be like to die. Instead, there were countless days before the two of you, and you constantly imagined all the things you’d like to do with Fred with this time, most of them rather cliché and mundane: you would help them out at the shop, someday get a real career of your own, have an outdoors wedding, have babies with him, grow old with him. Happiness seemed to stretch out before you in these moments, full of infinite possibilities.

So at Bill and Fleur’s wedding, twirling in Fred’s arms with your dress flaring around your knees, you impulsively decided to indulge in that dream. You needed to say it in that moment, because you knew that either of you could die any day.

You kissed him deeply, and looked up at him.

“Let’s get married,” you blurted out.

“What?”

“Married. Us.” You frowned a little bit. “You’ve never thought about it?”

“’course I’ve thought about it! Don’t be silly.” Fred grinned. “But you know, you’re still a bit young. I mean, you’re of age—but you’re of _Ron’s_ age, and he’s definitely too young to be married.” He made a face. “That’d be weird.”

You gave him a _look._

“Hate to break it to you, but I’m _always_ going to be Ron’s age.”

“Well, that complicates things. You think you can manage aging a little faster? George and I perfected that aging potion for the Triwizard Tournament, you know…”

You hit him—lightly and harmlessly and just on the shoulder, but you smacked him all the same, laughing. “The two of you got caught and sprung beards, Fred. You looked like Merlin.” You tilted your head when the laughter died down, watching him carefully. “So does this mean you’ll never want to marry me?”

He looked aghast at the accusation.

“No! Of course I want to marry you. Just… later. When Ron is older.”

You snorted.

“…you sure?”

“Mhm.”

“I’m holding you to that.”

He grinned.

“I’m holding _you_ to that too. You’ve made the absurd decision to marry Fred Weasley, and there’s no backing out!”

“Are you proposing to me?”

He didn’t miss a beat.

“Yep. You’re my fiancée now. Sorry!”

You giggled, and he spun you again. A light flashed in the corner of your eye, followed by the whirring sound of a Polaroid printing from a camera. The two of you had been captured on film, your dance and engagement immortalized—evidence of the long life stretching before the two of you.

 

* * *

 

But the long life is gone now. There will be no more dances, no home together, no marriage, no babies. You are alone, cut off from that infinite, happy path, left only to mourn it. You’ve kept the photo, of course, and looking at it is the only way you can pretend that your life is as it once was. You have watched Fred spin you a thousand times, pulling you toward him and kissing you silly... You always close your eyes after and try to recall how his hand had felt on your waist, the precise feeling of his lips, how he had laughed in that moment...

 

* * *

 

One day, George visits you on campus. On the weekdays, you often return to Hogwarts to study part-time, as many other veteran seventh years are doing to finish their NEWTs. George routinely checks up on you, smuggling Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes and other contraband to cheer you up. The two of you visit your old haunts: the secret passages, the Gryffindor commons, the lakeshore by the Whomping Willow, _just_ out of its reach. One day, when the two of you are treading through the snow by the lake, naked tree branches in the corner of your eye, you find yourself looking up at him. Inappropriately, your mind wanders to that silly prank that the two of them had played on you…

You stare at him. Your voice is calm, as smooth as the lake surface. It is so cold that your breath mists at your lips.

“Do you remember when you and Fred played that joke on me?”

George only nods, as though this is a normal question.

“I still stand by it, you know. He was the evil twin.”

You laugh a little bit.

“You don’t have to worry. I can tell the difference.”

A pause. The two of you just stare, studying each other’s expressions. His eyes are the same warm brown, and the lines in his face are the exact same as when Fred is stressed… His build is the same too, even if his shoulders are slumping a bit, weighed down by the aftereffects of war and loneliness and loss.

“Not by looking, you couldn’t,” George points out.

“No.” You take a step closer. _Stupid, stupid,_ you think to yourself, but you’ve been going mad for _ages_ now, not knowing what to do with the emptiness of the flat… “I’m still sorry about the mistake. It’s just… you look just like him.”

He leans down.

“I’m sorry, too. That I look like him.”

The two of you are silent. After their growth spurt a few years back, the twins had sprung up like beans, and you have to stand on your toes—just the way you did with Fred…

Your lips are hesitant at first. They brush against each other slowly, haltingly, because the both of you know that this is wrong and that you’re going mad and that this will not cure your grief. But when you are pressed together like this, the yawning cavern of loneliness feels a little less cold. It is substituted by the foolish memory of Fred, his skin pressed against yours, wonderfully hot in the winter chill…

But it is not really his skin, you tell yourself. Pausing, you consider stopping.

But then George is pulling you by the waist and his hand is cupping your cheek and you have reached up and threaded your fingers through his hair. Before you know it, the two of you are pressed against each other, panting into the other's mouth, tongues working desperately to swallow each other’s grief. Your hot breaths cloud around your faces, hiding your lips.

And his lips feel so much like Fred’s, and you know you are being unfair to them both, but you cannot stop.

 

* * *

 

 

“…wow.”

Fred collapsed on top of you, still out of breath. Your bodies were coated with sweat, but you didn’t care, only hugging him closer. At the foot of the bed, your feet absently tapped at his, and he responded in kind.

“You take my virginity,” you said after a few moments, “and all you can say is ‘ _wow_ ’?”

“You _aren’t_ going to say wow? I’m hurt. I thought I did a good job!”

“Hm... I guess it was okay,” you teased. “I’d rate you an ‘O’.”

“Incredible! The first ‘O’ I’ve ever gotten! Take that, OWLs!” You snorted. “I’m not surprised, of course—you _did_ keep saying that.” He propped himself up on an arm, looking at you in the face as he impersonated you: “‘ _Ohhhh, Fred, please don’t stop! Ohh, I’m going to—’_ ”

“Merlin, _shut up_!” You smacked him. “I hate you!”

Of course, you didn’t. It was quite the opposite, and he knew that at this point, and had acted in kind. Fred had been careful with his hands, fretting over almost every detail, because he wanted your first time to be perfect. He had asked over and over if this was okay, if you were in pain, telling you not to worry because he’d made sure that the two of you were being safe. He’d been so gentle and affectionate with you, and it didn’t hurt at all, and you’d felt feather-light the whole time, telling him _I love you, I love you, I love you,_ into his ear. You’d held each other so fiercely during every second, as though the moment either of you let go, one of you would float away…

 

* * *

 

George thinks he’s finally lost his mind.

Both of you _know_ that this is wrong, but you barely make it home anyway. As soon as the front door swings shut behind you, he is pulling you toward the bedroom, and you are not resisting, and your clothes keep falling, falling, falling, shedding like snakeskins. And he has never felt your bare skin before, but it is impossibly familiar and comforting, like your flesh was made for him—even though you’ve never belonged to him. As far as he is concerned, he is an imposter, an imitation of the body that is supposed to be wrapped up in yours.

He ends up pushing you against the wall, his hands traveling up and down your torso as you work on his belt. “We shouldn’t do this, we shouldn’t,” you keep whispering, but every time he moves away, you pull him down by the shoulders, and George finds it impossible to stop himself from kissing you again. Your scent is so wonderful, and your hips feel so good, and for a moment, he can’t think of anything besides your hot breath on his collarbone. It is the happiest he has been in months.

He is mad with need as he lifts you up and carries you to bed. He knocks a vase over, and his knee bangs against the bed frame, and your body lands harshly on the mattress, but neither of you flinch. George finally pauses here, wanting to ask if you are okay, remembering that he should maybe find protection—but then you are pulling at his hips, your legs are suddenly wrapped around his waist, and you are begging for him. He is on top of you, and then he is inside you, and for a few, fleeting moments, he feels the guilt ebbing away.

 

* * *

 

You have no one to blame but yourself. You’d instigated as much as George had, and he’d actually paused multiple times, pulling back and trying to ask if you were _sure_ , if you were _okay_. You could tell that he was concerned even when you cut him off, because Fred had had the exact same mannerisms... but you kept going, kept wanting to fill up the emptiness inside you. And though you’d stared at his face during the entire act, you find it hard to look at it now.

Beside you, George’s breathing has finally evened out. You feel him running a finger along your waist. It seems more clinical than sensual, and so, you glance down. Moonlight is spilling onto the bed through the window slats, illuminating finger-shaped dark spots at your hips.

“Sorry,” he whispers.

You close your eyes.

“Just a bruise. Don’t worry about it.”

“Not about that. I mean—I’m sorry about those too, the bruises. But I’m also just… _sorry._ ”

Your breath hitches.

“Don’t worry,” you reply carefully, “It’s my fault.”

“Only as much as it’s mine.” Jaw clenching, you try to steady your breathing as he continues, “I’d understand, you know, if you hate me now.” George laughs a little bit, sounding broken the way he does in his early mornings alone in the washroom. “It’s been unfair of me to ask you to stay with me this whole time, when you look at me and keep thinking of _him_ —and it was unfair of me to do this with you—and it’s unfair that it’s _me_ beside you right now, and not _him_ —”

His voice breaks off just as you turn to him. It is childish of you to starting crying, but you can’t help yourself.

“Oh, _George,_ ” you breathe, and he flinches when you say his name. You reach out, cupping his face and thumbing his jaw, your finger running along his cheekbone until it reaches the scar where his ear used to be. “Please, _please_ don’t say that. His death was unfair, but _you’re_ not. It’s… you just _can’t_ think that way about yourself… this is why I’m worried about you,” you finish helplessly. You know that he’s been suffering, but you didn’t know that it would be this bad: that he would look at you, and accuse himself for causing your grief.

He doesn’t seem to hear your words.

“You can leave me,” he says. “You’re allowed to.”

You curl up against his body, fingers still resting upon his face.

“Am I allowed to stay instead?”

George doesn’t reply to that, just pulls you close and holds you tighter. His body is warm and coated in sweat and he smells almost like love potion, so you don’t protest, simply trying to press yourself closer to him. It is unfair of you to do this, but it would be more unfair for you to go.

“I won’t leave,” you reassure him, and the two of you lie there for the rest of the night, facing each other. Neither of you are willing to fall asleep, and neither of you are willing to talk, too afraid of what is waiting in your dreams…

 

* * *

 

You watch his face the whole time, and in your eyes, he can see his reflection.


	2. Part II

When the sky begins to lighten, the two of you roll out of bed and head into the washroom together. Unlike other mornings where you keep each other company, you and George do not talk. There is no banter, no laughter as the two of you try to joke through the toothpaste and suds. Instead, you do not even look at him, and you hope that he doesn’t notice. If he does, he’ll know that you’re too ashamed to see Fred right now.

Of course, you can’t avoid him forever. You need to help him with the joke shop today. The twins had never quite gotten the hang of the more complex potions, and that’s where you’ve always come in. It is not a duty that you’ll neglect now—especially since keeping business steady is one of the few ways that George distracts himself from Fred’s passing.

But you need some sort of closure before you head downstairs and face the day together. Steeling yourself, you put a hand on his arm, pressing your naked front against his back. He stiffens a bit, but you still allow yourself to savour the feeling, because you do not ever intend to indulge in it again. 

“We can’t do this again.”

Your voice is gentle, but his jaw tightens anyway. It is a little easier to look at his face in the mirror right now. Fred, during his lifetime, had never made such an expression.

“I know.”

“I won’t leave,” you reiterate. “But I’ll stay in Fr— …my room tonight.”

“Sounds good.”

You move to leave the washroom.

“It’s not your fault,” you remind him.

He closes his eyes.

“Sure.”

 

* * *

 

 

“I think Hermione mentioned this to me once,” you remarked, staring at your reflections in the tall mirror. You and Fred had been looking for somewhere to snog, and had tried all the usual places: the secret passageways, where Peeves had come to harass you; toward the edges of the Forbidden Forest, at which you’d quickly lost your nerve; and in the dormitories, which were now too crowded. This had brought you to the fifth floor corridor that was no longer off-limits, but still fairly deserted.

The locked room on the fifth floor had seemed your best bet for privacy, and so Fred had broken into it without thinking. It ended up being empty save for a mirror. The two of you were peering into it now, and the fantastical images within it tugged at your memory:  _I saw my parents in it,_ Harry had told Hermione, who’d then told you,  _and then later, I saw myself with the Philosopher’s Stone._

“D’you think it shows the future?” Fred asked, interrupting your rumination.

“Not exactly?” You squinted. “I think it’s supposed to be your desires.”

You watched yourself shake hands with the Minister of Magic. It wasn’t just the glory of an exciting career that interested in you—it was the silver band on your engagement finger, a little shining stone on it. And it was embarrassing, but you could guess who it was that had given it to you… Glancing at Fred, you hoped that he didn’t notice how warm your face was.

You relayed the image to him, but without the ring.

“Awfully boring desire,” he teased.

“Well, what’s  _yours?_ ”

“I’m swimming in galleons,” he remarked. “Me and George, both. And you’re there too, looking happy, and…”

He trailed off.

“And?” you persisted.

“…”

His ears flushed pink.

“Never mind.”

“I want to know!” you whined. But he waved you off. “Are we snogging? Doing something dirtier? Wow, I hope not—your  _brother_ is there!”

He went even redder. “No! You have no faith in me at all, do you?”

“Of course not.”

Later, he’d relayed to you the full image in the mirror: you were beside him, hands clasped in his. On your engagement finger: a silver band with a glittering stone. He would go on to scour Diagon Alley for a similar ring after Bill and Fleur’s wedding, and once you finally saw it, you’d realize that it was identical to the one that you’d seen in the Mirror of  _Erised._

 

 

* * *

 

 

After being with George, you are surprised when you work on a new batch of amortentia. You’d always assumed that two identical twins raised together would have the same scents, but you are apparently wrong. Whereas Fred’s had always reminded you of fresh grass, George’s is closer to pine needles. You’re not sure why. Scent is, you suppose, more complex than genetics.

Maybe your memory is off, you reason at first. It’s been a long time since Fred last held you, so maybe you’re getting things mixed up. So when you go home, you indulge in perhaps your most embarrassing, private habit. You go to your dresser, take out one of Fred’s old shirts, hold it to your face. You inhale—deeply. It’s been months now, but it still smells faintly of him, because you’ve never touched his belongings except for this reason. His shirts have remained trapped in the dresser, an attempt at keeping a tangible memory of him.

It turns out that you aren’t wrong: the two scents are similar, but still different.

_They_  are different.

But humans are terrible with scents, and everyone seems to have trouble with telling the twins apart.

 

* * *

 

 

The arrangement keeps up for several days before George snaps.

_You sodding idiot, you,_ he keeps thinking.  _You’re lucky that Fred isn’t haunting you right this moment. You deserve to be haunted! You deserve Zonko’s entire stock of dungbombs._ Every time he looks into the mirror, Fred is there, frowning at him, looking just about ready to pull a Peeves. He keeps telling George that he had been right—he  _is_ evil. A good twin wouldn’t have done this to his dead brother’s girlfriend. Of course, the tone is always joking, but George catches the hints of disappointment in his brother’s eyes.

“It isn’t about her,” George always argues around his toothbrush. “It’s about you.”

“How could this possibly be about  _me?_ ” Fred replies, sounding scandalized. Then, after a pause: “She’s a ten-out-of-ten. A solid ‘O’. You can’t possibly tell me that you were thinking of me while the two of you were shagging. Mate, if I thought about you each time I was with her, I’d have been celibate my whole life!”

George spits out his toothpaste. “You don’t understand,” he retorts, “because you never had to watch me die.”

Maybe it is something about saying this out loud that makes him snap—acknowledging again that Fred is gone. It hurts, because if he were alive, he and George could figure this out together, just the way they had with every trial: how to jack the car without Mum and Dad noticing; how to get the Marauders’ Map to work; how to get started on the Nosebleed Nougats; how to best infuriate Umbridge; how to safely host Potterwatch; how to muster the courage to face the Death Eaters. But Fred  _isn’t_ alive, and George doesn’t know what to do on his own, unable to make heads or tails of this situation. His brother is not around to help him with this reality: that as good it was indulging in your body, seeing his brother in your eyes had made it even better.  

The mirror is not enough. The mirror does not understand him. Fred shakes his head.

“Just don’t take her for granted,” Fred says, and then George is out the door, the illusion dissolving.

He comes to you that night, rapping at the door just as you’d once knocked on his. When you answer him, you are already in your nightclothes, ready for bed. You do not greet him, but you also do not turn him away. George stares at you, eyes roaming down to your lips, and then to your collarbones, still marked up and bruised from his teeth…

You look at him carefully, and he stares back, almost unblinking. He doesn’t break eye contact as he stops forward. Slowly, he lifts his hands, and you do not flinch when they come to rest on your upper arms.

After a long silence:

“Not in this room.”

He nods.

“Not here,” George affirms. And then he takes your hand, leading you over to his.

 

* * *

 

 

After one particularly long night, George gets up before you in the morning and makes you a tea. It being a Saturday, he lounges around and brings the tea to bed, so that the two of you can have a lie-in. It takes you a few moments to become alert, and he rubs your back as you sit up and groan.

“Thanks.”

“Not at a problem, love,” he says. For a moment, your lips stop at the rim of the teacup. He has never called you  _love_ before. It makes you think of… well, it was what Fred had sometimes called you. But George seems to be unaware of this: it had been a genuine slip.

You try not to linger on it for too long. They are different individuals, and no matter how much George’s voice tricks you, he is still not  _him._ And it is easier to think about it when you drink tea that’s the wrong flavour, when he reaches up to the touch the right side of his head, his scar from the dark magic still aching…

While watching him, you suddenly realize that you never seem to see this injury in the darkness of his room. And you never think of the too-sweet tea at night. You never pay attention the scent of pine needles, not when you are drunk on the smell of weathered brooms. You always look at his face, and  _just_ his face.

You have been so unfair.

When George leans down to kiss you, you close your eyes. It is deep but chaste, your fingers ghosting his right jawline the whole time. For once, it is slow and warm and exactly what you want.

 

* * *

 

 

You only make this mistake only once, and it is precipitated by a painful loneliness. You should have expected it to happen at some point, really. George’s body is the only thing left of the twins, and he feels so good within you, and even though his touch is too rough and too needy to be quite right, the wrong name escapes your lips.

“Oh,  _Fred_ —”

You stop immediately, slapping a hand over your mouth.

The both of you freeze.

Your eyes squeeze shut, waiting for punishment. You expect George to leave. You expect him to cry. You expect him to lash out and get angry and demand that you move out.

Instead, he is gentle. He cups your face, and makes you look at him in the eye.

“It’s okay,” he says, his throat full of sympathy.

“No. No, it’s not.”

“It is. I understand.”

He smiles a little bit, and it breaks your heart. It is the smile he gives himself in the mirror.

“I miss him too. If this is what you need—if you think about him—I understand. It’s okay.”

“…”

“If it helps, you can always call me Fre—”

“ _No!_ ” you cut him off, and bite your lip and try not to tear up, because it is not fair to displace George’s pain with your own. It finally becomes clear to you that you have committed the worst possible crime against him: the crime of enabling his failure to heal, the crime of making his reflection into a ghost. It is the worst thing you could ever do, and it is something for which Fred would  _never_ forgive you.

While watching his bittersweet expression, you realize something else:

Calling him by his brother’s name had been a genuine mistake. At some point, it had happened that Fred’s memory was not the sole reason for your attraction to George.

At some point, during your attempts to force yourself to look at enjoy his too-sweet tea and take pleasure in his careless, sloppy touches, you have started to see less of Fred and more of George.

It makes you hurt for George, and it makes you hurt for Fred, and it makes you loathe yourself.  _You awful, **awful** , traitorous wh—_

You stand up.

“I have to leave.”

 

* * *

 

 

So you leave. It is not permanently, and you still promise to help the shop restock its potions, but you’ll work on it from Hermione’s place. It will give the two of you space from each other, you keep saying.

You take several of Fred’s shirts, and the photo where the two of you are dancing, and a little velvet box with your silver engagement ring, and you pack it all into a small handbag that is heavy with an extension charm and nostalgia. George begs you not to go, and it hurts you deeply, because you want to give into his pleas. But the baggage weighs down your hand ominously, reminding you that staying would be cruel.

“I’m not mad at you,” George keeps insisting. He grabs your wrist as you unlock the door, and looks at you so pleadingly that you almost consider caving in. “I’ve never been mad—it’s an easy mistake. It’s my fault for looking just like him.”

“That’s not your fault,” you reply gently, helplessly.

He continues, unhearing. “I can be him for you, if you want—really, I know this sounds crazy, but it’ll make me feel better in a way—”

“But it  _shouldn’t!_ ” you cry. And then you are holding your face in your hands. You might have poisoned your dearest friend, all because you can’t seem to grieve like a normal person, all because there is something  _wrong_ with you. “It shouldn’t. We shouldn’t feel better from doing this. We’re hurting each other, George.”

 

* * *

 

 

“You’ve really messed up, Gred.”

“How could you do this to her?”

“I told you not to take her for granted.”

“I’m not you, and you’re not me. I know we did the switching joke a lot, but it stops being funny if you trick yourself, you know.”

“You’re going crazy, Georgie. You have to stop talking to me like this—to  _yourself_ like this.”

It is this last conversation that makes George fill up the sink with cold water and plunge his whole face into it. He stays there for so long that he becomes lightheaded. He holds his breath for so many minutes that he remembers that Harry had once used Gillyweed in that Triwizard Challenge and he wishes that he’d nicked some of that stuff from Snape’s stocks. He does it for so long that he thinks that he might be on the verge of dying, and it is then that he finally pulls away, snorting tap water into his nose.

George has to sort himself out. He has to, because he keeps missing you for all the wrong reasons, which are masking what he thinks  _might_  be the right reasons. He’s not sure about that last bit: it’s a lot of guesswork, since Fred isn’t around to help him properly reason through the facts. But either way, his memory of Fred is right: George is taking you for granted. You are not an object for his mourning. You are not a body on which he can project his brother’s life. You have done so much for him. You deserve better than this.

It shouldn’t be about Fred, not anymore and not ever before. It should be about  _you._

 

* * *

 

 

After some time, George finally raises head to look at his reflection. He watches as rivulets of water run down from his bangs and into his tired, brown eyes.

It doesn’t have to work the other way around, he realizes. It probably never will. _You_  should mean more to him, but  _he_  doesn’t have to mean more to you. Your body should be your own, but if  _he_ continues to be a body on which you can project his brother…

…well, he would understand that. He would understand it quite well.

In the mirror, Fred shakes his head at him.

 

* * *

 

 

You think you cannot get any lower. You think you cannot become any more irresponsible. You think you cannot get any more awful.

But you manage it.

You take out Fred’s photos every night. You still watch yourself dance with him. You still press your face into his old shirts, even though his scent has dulled. You put on the diamond ring when you are alone. You still love him with every inch of your heart—you know this. You always will.

But the next time you brew love potion, with its perfect silky sheen and its spiraling smoke, you inhale deeply, and are confronted with the scent of freshly baked sweets, broomstick twigs, and  _pine needles._

 

* * *

 

 

From the start, self-control has never been a strength of George’s. Growing up, it meant a lot of frustration from Mum, endless detentions with Fred, and—in a grand finale—leaving Hogwarts before he could finish school. George should have known that this flaw would follow him into adulthood. He should have known that it would persist even after Fred’s passing, with no one left to enable him but himself. He should have known that before properly sorting out his relationship with you, George would fuck up one last time.

When he opens the front door, he finds you standing there, looking knotted up and broken.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” you blurt out. “Something I can’t ignore anymore. Oh, George, I’m so sorry, but every time I make that  _bloody_ potion, I just can’t stop  _thinking_ about it—”

George is more than happy to oblige. He has always cared for you deeply, and would never turn you away when you are filled with so much sadness.

But self-control has never been his strength, and your lips are so beautiful, and your eyes are so pleading, and your neck is still marked up from his teeth.

George can’t help but bite again.

The two of you end up not doing much talking at all.

 

* * *

 

 

It had not been your intention to kiss him. You had not meant to let him strip you of your clothing. Yielding to his touch on your jawline, letting him bruise your lips with his mouth, allowing his hands to part your legs—these are all accidents. When he plies at your body with his rough fingers, you cannot help but beg for him. You accept him back inside you, dragging your nails down his back until you’ve marked him up the same way he’s marked you inside.

It had not been your intention to become addicted.

But you must give yourself some credit. The entire time, although you are plagued by guilt over Fred, you do not pretend that it is him for even a moment. Instead, you are fully aware that you are allowing  _George_  to kiss you, allowing  _George_  to have your body, allowing  _George_ to make you scream. After all, you have been thinking about doing this with him for weeks.

You kiss the right side of his jawline the entire time, your body shuddering as he spends himself inside you.

It had not been your intention to tell him this way, but when you are beneath him like this—well, it is an impulse that you cannot resist.

“I love you.”

He pauses.

“What?”

You watch him.

“I love you.”

George looks down, and you cannot make out his expression.

Another silence, one that is filled with your heartbeats, and then—

“…you don’t have to say that.”

A terrible feeling sprouts your chest, and begins crawling up your throat.

“You can look at me and think of him. You can imagine it’s him while we’re doing this. You can even call me his name. Thinking of him and saying that you love me, though—I don’t think you should do that.”

It’s like being doused in ice water. It’s like trying to trap a monster inside your mouth. It’s like falling apart piecewise and trying to hold onto all the fragments with your crumbling hands. It’s nothing like how it was to be with Fred, mutual and hopeful and full of infinite possibilities.

George doesn’t love you back.

 

* * *

 

 

When you begin to cry, George looks away. He can only think of one other time when he’s hated himself this much: when he allowed Fred to die. But he can’t lie about this to you. He won’t be able to stand it, hearing you say that you love him and knowing that those words aren’t meant for him.

“We—we’re s-stopping this,” you choke through your tears.

“Right.” And George knows that you’re serious this time around: he will never hold you again.

“I’m moving out.”

“I’ll help you pack.” It isn’t fair for him to ask you to stay.  _You took her for granted,_ he hears Fred say again.  _You deserve this._

“I c-can’t see you again.”

George knows that he is undeserving, but this stings too much. It makes him look up, nauseous.

“I’ll go mad if I’m alone.”

“You’ll go mad if I  _stay!_ ”

He goes quiet. 

After a few moments of silence, punctuated only by quiet sobs, you finally sit up, arms around your torso. Your voice is pleading and soft, and it gouges at his heart.

“You don’t even  _realize_  it, do you?”

George lifts his head.  _What is there left to realize?_

It takes you a moment to choke down your whimpers, even out your breathing. He waits quietly, patient.

“I don’t see him when I sleep with you,” you finally confess. “Not anymore. I don’t want to imagine him. I think of  _you,_ George.”

You look away.

George stays quiet. He hears the words, but doesn’t know what they mean. How can you look at him and  _not_ think of Fred? How can you fuck him and  _not_ imagine his twin? How are you  _not_ tempted to call him by his brother’s name? George, himself, is not able to resist any of these things. He is only a substitution for Fred: a second best to fill the absence of your first love; a shallow replacement for the brother who’d been at his side since birth.

_I love you,_ he remembers you saying.

George doesn’t know what you mean, but he knows that he’s hurt you.

 

* * *

 

 

Hermione welcomes you back that night with open arms. She seems unsurprised when you return with a suitcase and red eyes. Hugging you tightly, she rubs your back as she leads you inside.

“You can stay however long you want,” she offers without asking. She’s such an angel, you think—always so thoughtful of others’ feelings. If only you were a little more like her.

“T-thanks.” You breathe deeply. “Oh, Hermione, I’ve been so selfish…”

“You’re mourning. You’re allowed to be selfish.”

The next sob is particularly deep.

“No—no, that’s not an excuse. I’m not mourning the right way. ‘Mione, I don’t know what to do—I don’t know what to make of this. I need to tell someone. Oh, but  _please_ don’t hate me. Please,  _please._ I really thought I was doing the right thing, staying with George for so long, but I  _really_ messed up. I’m so awful, I’m an awful widow.”

Hermione leads you to the couch, looking nothing but sympathetic.

“There’s no right or wrong way to grieve,” she offers. “I don’t know what it’s been like for you, but for me—I just have to let the feelings come. I just have to remember that I can’t control it. …and I’ve got to remember that guilt won’t bring them back.”

Always so astute, you think.  _Of course_ , among all of the survivors, Hermione would have processed everything the best.

The both of you sit down, and she looks at you earnestly.

“You can tell me anything, you know, but only if you want. There’s no rush. You’re allowed to take as long as you need.”

 

* * *

 

 

Fred watched as you waved your wand, your movements laden with intent and precision. With every flick of the wrist, a clothing item levitated out the suitcase and folded itself. The drawers slid open, and one by one, your shirts, pants, and socks all settled neatly into the wood. Fred whistled. He had always admired your confidence as a witch—the careful wandwork, the skill at potions, your transfiguration abilities. He didn’t think that he and George would have been able to perfect half their products without your help.

“You’re a lot better at this than me,” he remarked.

“I know. I’ve seen you and George at The Burrow. Your Mum’s rules should hold here: you two are only allowed to do housework with your bare hands.”

Fred moaned dramatically, even though he wasn’t at all hurt. “I’ve given away all my freedom by letting you move in, haven’t I?”

“I could move back out.”

“ _No!_ ” he cried immediately. Of course, he knew you were kidding, but he didn’t want to risk it—convincing you to move in with him rather than attending your seventh year at Hogwarts had been hard enough. Oblivious to his worries, you giggled—and he was being gross, but he thought it was the most beautiful sound in the world.  _You,_ his  _fiancée,_ laughing in his room, in his flat, in the home that the two of you were about to share together.

He watched your luggage empty as the sky grew darker outside, the lights of Diagon Alley gradually flickering on to fend off the blackening night.

“Do you reckon we’ll drive each other crazy?” you suddenly asked. “Some couples are like that, you know. They move in with each other and can’t stand it.”

Fred put an arm around you, humming.

“I’m sure we’ll be fine,” he reassured you, taking your hand and studying the engagement ring he’d gifted you. You’d never know it, but he’d really taken a liking to the one he’d seen in the Mirror of  _Erised_ a few years back,and had blown most of his personal savings on a custom-made replica. Self-control had never been his strength.

As though you could feel his gaze, you began to play anxiously with the diamond, as if it would disappear the moment you let go.

“How can you be so sure?”

“Even if we can’t stand living together, we can just… you know, move out and try it again after a bit. Oliver did that with his girlfriend, and it worked out okay.”

“…you know, Fred Weasley, I think that’s the most sensible thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

“That’s hurtful!”

He heard you stifle your laughter, felt your head resting on his shoulder. “But what you’re saying is right,” you replied, and he heard the smile in your voice. “I’m sure it’ll work out, even if we have to separate for a while.”

Fred often declared—quite truthfully—that he was madly in love with you, but it was typically in the form of a joke. Rarely did he ever sober up and appear honest by it. There was that time in the Gryffindor Commons shortly before he left Hogwarts, wondering what was going to happen to his relationship with you; there was that that time he’d slid a diamond onto your finger, watching your face lighting up beautifully; and there was that time you had comforted him after George had lost his ear, holding him as he tried to process the fact that his twin brother could have  _died._

Fred decided that today would be an honest day. After all,  _he_ could die too.

He leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead, and told you, “I love you, you know? You could drive me up the wall and we could separate for years and years, but I’ll still love you. We’ll figure it out. I’m determined to make you the happiest girl in the world.”

He felt your face grow warm, and couldn’t help but smile.

“And you?” you asked. “What can I do to make you the happiest man in the world?”

“Hm, well, you could start by marrying me—”

“I like the sound of that.”

“—and having at least five kids with me, including one set of twins—”

“The twin bit is out of my control, you know.”

“—buying me tickets to the next Quidditch World Cup—”

“You’re filthy rich now!”

“—and helping me test out U-No-Poo?”

“Merlin help me.”

Fred grinned.

“But no, love. You don’t have to worry about me. As long as you’re happy, that’ll be enough for me.” He pressed his lips to your mouth, chaste and earnest. “That’ll  _always_  be enough.”

 

* * *

 

 

You stare at the silver band on your finger, the memory filling you with a strange emotion that is halfway between sadness and relief.

Your lips tingle, as though someone has just kissed you.

_As long as you’re happy, that’ll be enough for me._

 

* * *

 

 

It takes George some time to get to the next step. It’s a lot of sitting around at home and not eating and not drinking anything but firewhisky. It’s a lot of trying his hardest not to look at the door of the room you’d shared with his brother. It’s a lot of thinking about you, and about the way you’d tried to suppress your tears. It’s a lot of watching Fred staring at him in the washroom, disappointed.

It’s a long process even when he finally musters the courage to get his arse out of the flat. After George makes arrangements with Lee to run the shop for the next while, he finds his largest suitcase and packs within it: nearly all his clothes, all his photos with Fred, and all his pictures with you. And even after that, he dawdles at his barren flat for a while, contemplating its emptiness. Strangely, it no longer feels like home: just a place plagued by ghosts. But he is used to the company of ghosts.

By the time George arrives at the Burrow, the snow has begun to melt, patches of yellowed grass peeping out between the white. His baggage is drifting behind him, too heavy for him to carry by hand. He pauses before he knocks, staring uncertainly at the front door.

He’d gone through a million lines while packing.  _Hey, Mum, how are you? Bet home’s been a lot tidier without me._ Or,  _hey mum! How’s the family been? Has Ronniekins finally popped the question yet?_ Or,  _hey, Mum, is Harry around? I wanted to ask if he’s been treating Ginny right—if not, I’ll spike his pumpkin juice with U-No-Poo._

Instead, when she opens the door, and he meets his mother’s eyes, kind and gentle and shocked, clearly disbelieving that George is visiting, he feels himself falling apart.

“ _M-mum,_ ” he starts. “I’ve been a huge git.”

It takes her a moment.

“Oh,  _Georgie…”_ She sounds on the verge of tears. “Don’t say that. We all knew—we all knew you needed space.”

“You don’t understand.” His voice is shaking. “I’ve really ruined things, and I don’t know what to do. I left you alone, and then I went and messed things up with—with  _her_.” His mother only continues to listen, watching him with warm, shining eyes, and he is sure that she knows that he means  _you._ “Fred would hate me for this, I just know it. He’d help me sort it out, but he’s not here anymore, and Mum, I think  _you_ could—could you help? I know I’ve been a shite son, running away from the family for so long. But—I don’t have anyone, and I can’t—”

_I can’t do this on my own,_ he means to say.  _Fred is gone—and I can’t do this on my own._ But he doesn’t have to finish.

Besides Fred, the person who’s always been best at knowing what’s on his mind is Mum. And Mum’s always known better than anyone else what him and Fred need. Mums are just like that, George has always figured.

Molly Weasley throws her arms around her son, and then he is hugging her back, and then they are both crying—

It feels so good to be home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read the epilogue! It's short but crucial to the story.


	3. Epilogue

It has been three years since the end of the Second Wizarding War, three years after the passing of Fred. Two years since George has last seen you properly.

Of course, the two of you haven’t been total strangers since the night you’d left. You often come to visit the Weasleys at the Burrow, whatnot with Hermione having married into the family, and you almost having had done the same. It had been terribly awkward at first, with his Mum watching worriedly every second, half-expecting George to leave again and half-expecting you to burst into tears. The two of you had weaved around each other uncertainly, but eventually, your old friendship had drawn the two of you back together.

But neither of you had thought until now that it would be a good idea to meet alone. “Boundaries and all,” you’d told him once, and he’d agreed quite readily. Honestly, George is surprised that you’ve accepted his recent invitation to catch up, and even more surprised that you’ve agreed that it might be fun to try to sneak into Hogwarts.

“We haven’t been back in ages,” you had remarked. “You think we can still manage it? I don’t know if the secret passageways will work anymore.

But of course, they do. As it is the dead of summer, the two of you are the only people wandering the school’s halls. Both of you can’t stop commenting on everything—

“There’s the Whomping Willow,” he points out. The scene of an innocent joke, and then a mistake that had been as wonderful as it had been painful. The tree is lush with leaves, and the branches sway in the wind, misleadingly peaceful.

“Wow! Look, out the window—a thestral!”

Of course, both of you can see it.

“Haven’t touched one of those since Pivet Drive,” George remarks. He is quickly distracted again as the two of you set foot on the stairs. All of a sudden, the entire thing begins to move, accompanied by the groaning rumble of shifting brick. “Oh—blimey! I had forgotten what this felt like. Funny, isn’t it?”

“Wow! Yeah.” The two of you look around the castle as you make your way up the staircase, just soaking it all in. So many memories here, ranging between everything from joyful to tragic, from growth to grief. George remembers: watching Fred being sorted into Gryffindor with a wide grin splitting his face; trying out for the Quidditch team with his brother, with Oliver Wood delighting in their apparent telepathy; seeing his brother’s eyes follow your form, asking George if he should try to take you to the Yule Ball; holding a tissue to your nose after you’d braved a Nosebleed Nougat, feeling the hot breath from your laughter tickling his hand; zooming off on broomsticks with Fred in a blaze of fireworks, waving you goodbye; stepping back onto the school grounds to battle the Death Eaters, facing the longest night of his life…

Caught in one of your own memories, you realize where this staircase is headed.

“It’s taking us to the fifth floor.”

“It was off-limits in our third year,” George recalls. “Or, well, first year for you.”

“God, ‘off-limits’, ‘forbidden’. It sounds so funny now, doesn’t it? We haven’t had to worry about school rules for years.”

“Well, I never worried about school rules in the first place…”

He catches you rolling your eyes, hiding a grin. He can’t help but laugh. The fake indignation, the poorly concealed smile, the endearing banter—he’s missed it all so much. Walking through these halls with you, talking to you like this, it all feels so normal even though it’s been years.

Eventually, the two of you happen upon a room that is empty except for a mirror.

“Oh! This thing.” He watches as you walk toward it, eyeing it with interest. “I’m surprised it’s still here. Harry mentioned that they were supposed to move it out of Hogwarts ages ago, you know.”

George stands in front of it with you.

“Why?” he asks, glancing down at it. “Does it do anything—”

He goes quiet.

In the mirror, the two of you are standing together. On your other side is a third person: Fred. It is clearly Fred, and not George: he has both ears, and his face is devoid of the ageing that war and grief have brought to George’s expressions. He looks as young and fearless and untouchable as he had on the day he’d died. George looks from the mirror to the empty space beside you. It isn’t real.

In the mirror, Fred grins, as though he is playing one, final joke on George. _Gotcha!_ he mouths to George.

And then, curiously—

Fred nods approvingly at George, and even though he is silent, George knows that he is bidding him farewell. It’s his twin. He can tell.

Fred turns around, and then steps out-of-frame, leaving the two of you alone. George opens his mouth, wants to cry for him to stay, but then something else in the mirror makes him pause: you.

In this fantastical scene, you are turning to face him, reaching out. Your fingers brush against his jawline, then along his right cheekbone. They rest at his missing ear, his scar, just as they had in your first night together, when you’d called him George and vowed to stay with him. In this reflection, you are looking at him in a way that makes his heart swell and hurt at the same time. It is not because it is an expression of grief, but because it is the opposite—an emotion that he knows is the flipside of mourning, different but still intricately connected. An emotion that you’d once felt for him.

It is an emotion that he now understands.

In this mirror, George sees himself with someone he loves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I intentionally chose not to elaborate on what becomes of your relationship with George, because I want to leave it up to you to decide how you would feel about him at this point- i.e., what do you see in the Mirror of Erised? Let me know what you think you’d see, and whether you’d take him back, I'm actually super curious since their relationship was truly... a downward spiral...
> 
> Thank you everyone who's read this, and thank you especially if you've commented. I struggled significantly with chapter 2- because it's more about about a relationship than it is about grieving, and I wanted a happy ending. Would love to hear feedback!


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